


Walking Far from Home: Loaded Linen

by wilySubversionist



Series: Walking Far from Home [2]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:27:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilySubversionist/pseuds/wilySubversionist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s a little shocked when it works. No traces."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking Far from Home: Loaded Linen

**Author's Note:**

> _"i saw loaded linen tables..."_

She struggles to stand, unable to get traction on the slick floor. Her arms are sore and her nose smarts like a punch from an onslaught of raspberry sno-cone syrup and camphor-cherry. Her blood, and his. _How did it get so colorful in here_ , she wonders, pushing to her knees. She knows where she is, in his hive still, but the thickness on her tongue is overpowering and bright. A shudder passing from her toes to the top of her battered head, she remembers.

“Oh.”

Karkat still lies in a heap in the middle of the vivid whorls, limbs splayed. She sniffs deeply and makes out white-in-grey— jagged bones jutting through his skin. But her body has already mended, no pain at all. _I'll just drub him a little, gently_ , she decides while she crawls the distance between them.

Two light raps on his forehead wake him, screaming. His eyes are wide, his voice choked with fear and rage, but he doesn’t see anything. He won’t stop. She calls his name over and over again and puts her hands to his face, but he doesn’t snap alert until the whole bloody business replays to his end. He shuts his mouth finally when he understands, best he can, where he is; his body blinks back to how he remembered it most, healthy again with wiry muscle on top of bone. Terezi nods as she slinks back giving him room, _things in the right place_.

“Terezi. God.” He sits up and casts his eyes around, still somewhat bewildered. He thinks over all the facts, trying to get a toehold for strategy, what to do, what next. When he settles on her face, it’s a concerned-quizzical frown dabbed all over with red and teal. Her clothes are soaking in it. “I don’t know whether I should be glad to see you or totally pissed.”

“Heh, what else is new?” He’s glad to see her smile, but it’s a tight, wry shape he’s never seen and doesn’t fit her face at all.

“If we really are dead, I hope you’re not going to pull that apathetic Aradia bullshit. I don’t need you to get all spooky on me.”

“No, I’m not,” she answers. She’s made it to her feet and offers him her hands. With her help, he rises, and they stand facing each other, still tense and palm to palm. He’s trembling, she notes, maybe it was worse for him.

“We are dead, right? That grubfucking joker really bashed our heads in? WHERE’S MY SICKLE I SWEAR TO GOG I’LL FIND HIM AND MOTHERFUCKING 'HONK' HIM IN HIS…”

Terezi shakes her head as she steps back from him, sliding a little in the blood-slick. She’s sad, that wrong little smile holds fast.

“What?”

“I just…don’t think you need to do that anymore, Karkat. Since we’re dead, we get to make this,” she sweeps one hand towards the respiteblock, steadying herself on a wall with the other, “whatever we want. This is something new. We don’t have to be emotionless, but we don’t have to feel like we did before, either.”

He pauses, considering her carefully — _Something new_ — then closes his eyes, picturing the room clean and orderly, better than before. He’s a little shocked when it works. No traces. Terezi sniffs repeatedly, shallow and quick, adjusting to the change.

When he finds his courage and then his voice, it’s less timid than he thought it would be. “But what if I do still feel the same?”

Her mind and mouth twist like queryhooks. The tangy lime soporslime scent where his recuperacoon sat is replaced with a nutty structure covered in smooth vanilla buttercream, a broad flat shape with two spires, topped with flickering citrus points. “What is that?”

“Just a table. You said before” —he swallows hard— “that you were disappointed that my hive wasn’t set up for a ‘proper candlelight hatedate’. You were just… being you, I guess, but since we get do-overs…”

Karkat flounders a little, muttering beneath his breath. _Probably thinks I can’t hear,_ she grouses to herself, _always underestimating._

“I do feel the same.”

Terezi pushes off the wall deliberately, but goes no farther. She wants so badly to rush over, grab him and kiss him hard or hold him close ( _Finally, you idiot!_ ), but lets the urge pass; there’s time yet. An overwhelming thought: _We can do whatever we feel like, forever._ A crushing kind of contentment.

He watches her expression morph from confused to touched to grinning, shithive maggots as always. To him, she looks real again, solid and luminous.

“Well, then, I should investigate!”

The points of her teeth gleam and reflect like a disco ball and he is so goddamn glad she’s cackling as she confidently strolls ( _Is she doing that with her hips on purpose?!_ ) over, sits down, and scoots in warily. Her hand strokes over the tablecloth, pings at the silver charger and candlesticks. She bobs her head appreciatively, satisfied; it feels substantial enough.

And when she aims a grin at him and says “Alright, Karkles, I accept. Do your worst!” he can’t suppress his own broad smile, and goes to join her at an imaginary table for two.


End file.
